I hate the hands that hold me.

They have no regard for what I am. In their hands, I am not the symbol I used to be.

Nobility handled me once. They treasured me. Between their hands, I brought comfort. Behind the polished glass, I shone with warm pride. The pride of the palace. A beacon of safety. I symbolised a brutal battle won. And the re-crowning of a man we loved and respected.

Sometimes, those who walked past shed a tear. Those who had the honour of touching my precious stones stared in thoughtful wonder. Grateful sorrow. For I symbolised the lives lost for their sakes.

I felt the best when I sat, regal, upon his head. Physically, I weighed him down, but I couldn’t help feeling the atmosphere was as light as the uplifting of joy. The people who watched were awestruck. It was, and always will be, a beautiful moment for me.

But it took one day

and it was all to be torn away.

The pride stripped from every inch of the kingdom. And everything flipped to a horror story.

I still remember when fire flooded the hall.

I watched what I could.

Its flame tore through the heart of our palace.

And under smoldering remains, grubby hands came to claim their prize.

Gruesome, bloodstained faces with eyes that gleamed when they eyed my casing, no longer so safe.

I wonder if, in their hot, clammy, life-wrenching hands, they felt me shudder.

Now,

They pass me down through generations of murderous rulers

and they don’t bother to clean the blood.

They call me a sign of their victory.

I have no say.

But all I feel when I feel their greedy hands on my polished metal, is the harrowing dread of defeat.